What a change, she thought, compared to how frightened she'd been when she'd run into the building an hour earlier. Being with Smith, she didn't worry about a thing. She could feel his strength and protection radiating around her.
He was a trained killer. Indeed, a force of nature.
Her new roommate.
"Are you armed?" she asked abruptly.
"Always."
She shivered.
Her driver seemed surprised when he got out of the car to open the door and looked up, way up, into Smith's face.
"Good evening, sir."
Smith nodded, and got into the back with her.
Although it was cool in the interior of the car, Grace had the sudden urge to open a window, anything to give her a little more space. Even though he was sitting across from her, looking calm and in control, there was something completely overpowering about him.
Oh, get over it, she told herself. He's not the messiah.
Grace smiled and looked out the window.
Because then he'd be in a white sheet and wearing sandals. Probably have a halo around his head, maybe some cherubs floating around. He would most certainly not be wearing black leather, an intense expression, and a gun.
As a fit of giggles struck her, induced by stress and the absurd picture of him in a toga, she knew she needed to get a grip. After all, he was no doubt riddled with imperfections. He probably sang off-key in the shower, snored like a bulldog, and had frayed waistbands on his boxers.
As an image of him half naked came to mind, she winced and started to massage her temples. The Calvin Klein ad running through her head was not helping, not if she was shooting to demystify the man.
Through her fingers, Grace's eyes went to him. He was staring out of the car as they sped up Park Avenue. With every street lamp they went passed, light flared over the harsh lines of his face and then faded.
How had he broken that nose of his? And how many times?
"Is John Smith your real name?" she wondered, aloud.
His head snapped in her direction. She thought his stony expression meant he wasn't going to answer her but then he shrugged. "Real enough."
"What do I call you?"
"Whatever you want."
"Will you answer to Pookie?"
He looked back out of the window but she caught the corner of his mouth lifting up. "No."
Her eyes traveled over his short hair to the proud length of his jaw and then lingered on his lips. In a flash of heat, she remembered their kiss.
Smith turned to her and his eyes narrowed, as if he knew what she was thinking about.
"Were you about to say something?" he said with disarming softness.
She glanced away.
"No more questions, Countess?" His voice was mocking.
"None that you would care to answer," she muttered.
And none she had any business asking. She'd been wondering if he was married. She hadn't seen a ring on his finger, but some men didn't wear them.
As they pulled up in front of her building, he leaned over to her. His voice was a low growl.
"Be careful with those eyes of yours, Countess. They may be asking for things you don't really want."
And then he opened the door and stepped out.
Oh God, she thought. How was she going to live with him?
Grace took a deep breath. At least she'd have tonight to figure it out because surely he wouldn't be moving in until tomorrow. Or maybe the day after. There'd be time to adjust.
Grace gathered her wrap around her shoulders and stepped out of the car. As Smith walked her under the green-and-gold awning of her building, she wracked her brain for a way to end the evening on a casual, confident note. While the doorman opened the door, she was trying to frame the kind of breezy, sophisticated comment she was known for.
Too bad her wit was shooting blanks, she thought. Under the circumstances, probably the best thing to do was say goodnight and leave it at that.
When he started to go inside, she froze.
"Er—you're coming up? Tonight?" The pitch of her voice was an octave higher than usual and the doorman discreetly dematerialized.
Smith waved to the driver and the limo pulled away.
"That was our agreement." His eyes were laconic. "Do we have a problem? Again?"
"What are you going to sleep in?" she blurted.
"My own skin usually does the job."
"Oh, of course. Yes." And she'd thought the underwear fantasy had been hard to handle. "Ummm."
"What are you waiting for?"
She couldn't very well answer that one truthfully. He didn't need to know she was trying to clear her mind of what he'd look like buck naked.
As she led him through the grand lobby of the building, her mind was lamenting that she had no time to prepare for him coming into her home. Sleeping in the bedroom next to hers.
Sharing a bathroom with her.
A giggle came out of her mouth as she remembered her guest bath was ripped apart. There wasn't even running water in it. He was going to have to use her towels, her soap, her shower.
"What's so funny?" Smith reached over and hit the button to summon the elevator. His blue eyes moved over to her lazily, as if he might not really care what was amusing her.
So she made sure to tell him.
"I'm wondering what you're going to think when you take a shower tomorrow morning and have to use my lavender-scented soap." She smothered another fit of laughter born out of tension. "Are you sure you don't need anything? A razor? A comb? Or do you roll out of bed looking like your bad-ass self?"
"Well, what do you know. The countess knows a curse word," Smith remarked as the elevator arrived.
"I'm quite well-versed in the use of slang," she said. "Just the other day, I dropped a jar on my foot and swore a blue streak."
"Was it caviar?"
"No, shoe polish."
"Now that's another surprise." He bowed slightly at the waist as he held the door. "Your Highness."
She frowned. He was mocking her again and, stupidly, it hurt her feelings.
Because he was, after all, going to be living with her. Even if they were never going to be friends, surely they could both make an effort to be respectful of each other? She was certainly willing to work on getting along with him. Even if she vacillated between wanting to yell at him and ...
She wasn't going to let herself think about kissing him again.
"Just call me Grace, would you," she muttered while stepping inside. "That royal title nonsense is grating."
* * *
In the tight confines of the elevator, Smith was itching for the doors to reopen.
Grace was standing in front of him so he had a good look at the back of her neck, which was the last thing he needed. All the way up the building, he kept picturing his hands sliding around her waist and pulling her back against his body, tilting her head around so he could kiss her long and hard.
If the damn elevator was going up any slower, it'd be heading for the basement, he thought with a curse.
Working with the countess was going to be difficult. While riding in the limo with her, he'd had to stare out the window so he didn't linger on the generous expanse of leg revealed by her dress. And when he'd sensed her looking at him, he had been damn tempted to give her exactly what those eyes of hers had been asking for.
Hell, he'd even been annoyed to learn she'd been faithful to her husband. As if that aristocrat deserved it after the way he'd looked at her father's funeral.
When the doors finally slid open, he felt a surge of release as they stepped out into a hallway.
There were two unmarked doors at either end of the short corridor as well as a third that had a glowing red exit sign over it.